This is the Way
by abhorrent
Summary: "There were three things that Daryl Dixon knew, without a doubt: Merle was Merle, everyone dies, and the world will always move on." Daryl mourns for the loss of a loved one. (One-Shot)


_**BIG FAT WARNING FOR YOU:** Spoilers for Season Three of TWD and spoilers for "Survival Instinct." That's the video game with the Dixon Bros. Also, cussing._

_Finally saw season three and let me just say, wow. Wow. Really, what a great season. There was so much character development and things like that that I can't even begin to talk about it in a little author's note. Like Andrea's death! Holy hell, was that irony in it's finest? She struggled with suicide throughout 1-2 and in 3 she was forced to kill herself anyways. And Daryl! Oh, baby! I'm so sorry 4 u._

___This is a mourning piece for Daryl. It doesn't have much of a point, but does being in mourning have to have a point? Enjoy._

* * *

"_This is the way  
I'm always leaving  
This is the soft  
Voice of the evening  
This is the way  
I hear my father  
These are the flames  
That drown the water"  
__-_Devendra Banhart, "This is the Way"

* * *

He didn't realize what he was doing until it was done. When he'd heard that final squelch as his blade reluctantly pulled away from his brother's skull—it was like seeing Merle anew again. Except now it was neither his brother's crazed stare nor his dead self's milky, listless gaze—all that was left of his brother's face was nothing more than a half-caved cranium that had taken a vicious and malicious beating.

Daryl could have sworn he saw his brother's sneer. Still swore that he could see the mocking smile from this new angle. Like anything about this shit was funny in the least. There was someone who would laugh, though. Merle would find it funny. Hell, he was probably down there knee-deep in the Devil's Nectar, laughing it up with their pops about how weak little Darylina was worse than any snot-faced brat with a skinned knee they'd ever seen. How pitiful he was. Lowly, lonely little Daryl.

"_Y'finally did it, li'l brother. You killed ol' Merle,"_ He imagined Merle cackling as he spoke, nose upturned and eyes dancing with a malicious leer, his chest would bounce in a low rumble.

Except now Merle's eyes weren't exactly in his head and his chest lacked movement in its entirety. Daryl jumped from his brother's corpse and collapsed beside him. Something deep within his chest ached and noises bubbled forth from his lips until he was sure he didn't even sound human anymore. He couldn't take his eyes off of his brother. He had done this. He'd killed Merle.

Dumb, smelly, obnoxious Merle. Dead. "Tough as nails," became, "dead as a door-nail." And, frankly, Daryl was pretty sick of the lame analogies because there Merle was, decaying in the balmy Georgia sun as though it were a natural occurrence.

Nobody could kill Merle but Merle.

But now two people had gone and done the impossible.

The parasitic flies began to swarm, savagely hungry, and they spat their bile and began their rituals and it was _violating_. He could see their feelers caress Merle's graying, ashen flesh, their hairy fingers drawing up gross distances of skin to lay claim. It was perverse and disgusting and it was happening to his brother. Daryl didn't know what to do.

Another sob had him crawling on all fours toward Merle. With a wet yelp he swatted the beasts away, and the cowards left in a swift retreat. His hands danced frantically around his brother's body, never touching. He couldn't touch Merle like that. Merle didn't like having his personal space invaded. He hovered for a long time, crying over his brother because he didn't give a rat's ass what his pops, or Merle, or anybody on this godforsaken planet thought of him at that moment.

That was his blood.

"_Blood's thicker 'an water, Darylina."_

So it was.

"M'Sorry, Merle."

So he was.

His eyes found the hole in his brother's chest, another wave of sobs shaking him weak. The blood that had congealed and hardened around the point of entry had loosened when Merle had collapsed, and a thick goop of crimson slowly leaked onto his skin.

The littered corpses had been a rough hypothesis.

Merle's chest had been the conclusive evidence.

The entire situation had been fishy, fishier than any dumb bimbo Merle had brought in from the underbelly of the trailer parks, from the get. Daryl had understood that. Hell, Merle had even understood that. That's why he went on this suicide mission. That's why he had left Daryl behind. Again.

"_You know I'm the only one you can count on, li'l brother. It's jus' you an' me."_

Selfish, ignorant Merle. Damn him.

How could such a selfish bastard do something that required selflessness? It was never like Merle to put himself in danger for anyone, let alone a group of people who had—_technically—_left him stranded on a roof.

"Sometimes I hate you so much, you asshole," he murmured, his anger leaving him as a fresh wave of tears blurred the lines of his brothers face until that damned _smirk_ was nothing more than a vague area of browns and yellows, "But you were _family_. It was supposed to be you an' me. You belong with me, brother."

"_Now, now, now. I see we 'ave ourselves a little predicament 'ere,_" he could swear he heard his brother say, "_I reckon a li'l boy tellin' me he done belong in a certain prison with a certain _Sheriff_ and his band a' Merry Misfits. Walk'd away, said he didn't need no Merle._"

"Fuck you."

Except Merle didn't reply this time. Didn't smack him or tackle him, laugh at him or bark at him in anger. He said nothing. He did nothing. He left Daryl, again, and this time for good. He had nothing to say.

He was dead.

It must have been a good hour of private weeping until his ears finally picked up a foreign noise. The sheds had been blissfully silent while he mourned, the only noise being that of the grass as the wind turned their long hairs in a peaceful wave. It was as if God, or whatever, had permitted him some sense of momentary relief or some other awful, preachy bullshit.

He figured that if God was so kind as to grant him some final moments, he could have been kind enough not to let his brother turn. Or die.

Bastard.

His ears honed in on the tell-tale shuffle of a walker. He cursed under his breath and began his sad attempt at dragging his brother's sorry ass away. He didn't know where, just that he needed to get Merle and go.

"Come on you lazy oaf," he muttered, already winded after such a short distance. Merle was literally a dead weight, and he was heavy. He was heavier before the apocalypse, but now his weight was becoming more of a survival issue than a "get in the cab you fat bastard," issue.

His body was on edge and pushed beyond the brink of exhaustion. He could feel the pull of the knots in his shoulders as he heaved his brother inch-by-inch. His body was a beaten dog, both tired and restless and fighting him every step of the way. There was no way he would be able to drag Merle to a proper resting place. He'd barely made it to the nearest shed when he took notice that there were more than a few dead bastards roaming around these parts.

"Shit, shit, shit," with a tremendous inhale he dragged his brother inside of the shed and closed the door as quietly as he could. When the doors closed his knees buckled and he fell to the floor in a winded heap.

Again he found himself crying, and he stood on shaky legs and left his brother. He wandered the shed in an aimless shuffle, not knowing where to go, or what to do. All he knew was that he couldn't be around yet another one of his failures.

He couldn't save his pops.

He couldn't save Jess.

He couldn't save Scout.

He couldn't save Warren or any of those others in Atlanta.

He couldn't save Merle from that rooftop.

He couldn't save Sophia.

He couldn't save Glenn and Maggie from his brother's temper.

He couldn't save Merle.

He _couldn't_ save Merle.

He couldn't save _Merle_.

No matter how many times he tried to save Merle, he never could. Merle could save Merle, and Merle could save Daryl. Hell, Daryl could even save Daryl. It was just Daryl who couldn't save Merle.

He was coming to a point where he didn't know if he could actually save anyone. Maybe that was his destiny.

And it hurt. It hurt because no matter how many times he tried, how many times he put himself out there, he couldn't save them. Even with all of his knowledge, all of his years of training and having these basic survival instincts literally beaten into him, he still couldn't do anything to help the people he couldn't do anything but care about. He didn't understand why.

It pissed him off.

He rounded a corner and paused when he saw the scene before him. A bloodied boiler. Scuffle marks on the floor. Two sets of footprints, and he knew his brother's set of steps anywhere. It didn't help that Merle's rifle sat pretty beside his blood spatter.

And that pistol was poised right above it. It glowed in the waning sunlight, mocking him with it's purity because there was nothing holy about that object. He'd know that pistol anywhere.

It was the same one that bastard of a Governor had stuck in _his_ face. Just before he'd pulled a sack over his head and tossed him into some sort of twisted death pit. He knew that pistol. Knew it damn well. One could sat he was even _intimately acquainted _with the piece.

He had a dream one night: he was shoving that same gun so far up "Phillip's" ass that the man died of lead poisoning. Needless to say, he woke up feeling slightly vindicated.

He hated that man. And he hated that he found his brother's death to be a joke.

He hated most of all that the Governor had gotten to him.

Had gotten under Daryl's skin, infected his blood with a new disease. A disease that fed off of the raw need to _kill_. To kill that smug sonofabitch, to watch his body rot and turn back just so he could kill it again. And he would leave him in the Georgia heat, leave him to the flies and colonies of maggots that would surely grow out of his rotting chest.

Just so that dickweed would see how—literally—the world did not revolve around him, and it would _move on_, because in the end he was _nothing_. And Daryl would laugh. It would be the sweetest nectar, he would lap it up like a runt kitten to its mother's teat. Then maybe he would _move on_, as well.

Another glance and he was sick. Sick to his stomach of this shed. He couldn't stay here, he would risk his chance with the walkers. He made his way back to his brother, kneeling down so he could position the man better. With gentle ministrations, he folded his brother's stiff arms over his chest (and the wound) and straightened his legs. He left the smile behind.

Without second glance, he made his way to the back of the shed. He found several bales of hay stacked in high columns, and he attacked it with a wan smirk. He returned his loot to his brother's body, and began the methodical process of laying the hay over him in an obsessive crosshatch. No inch of his brother was spared, and when he was finished he stood back in a blind haste.

He didn't know if it were sweat, or tears, or maybe even karmic retribution, but his eyes began to burn at the sudden thought of what he was about to do. He wiped at his eyes violently, and returned to his work.

He began to spread large chunks of hay in a misshapen line, making a retreat into the back of the shed, where he then made a monstrous pile of it. He stood back and admired his work, and hoped that it did work, before fishing around in his pockets.

He had been lucky enough to score a few cheap lighters off of some geeks earlier, and now more than ever he was thankful he had. Five would have to be enough. He broke two and did his best to spread it evenly around the pile. It was not nearly enough as he would have preferred, but the hay was dry enough from the winter to be brittle. It should burn easily enough on it's own. He worked another two into the line he had formed and saved one for his brother.

He broke the lighter over his brother's face, figured if anything, Merle didn't want to be seen looking like that. Then he took out his own lighter, and heaved a heavy sigh.

"I loved you, bro. Always did," he sniffed, igniting the hay as he said so.

The gas-laden hairs began to glow, and it wasn't long until the stack began to smoke heavily as it took to flame. Daryl made his way down the line, igniting the wet points until he made his way back to the stack, where he lit his lighter and tossed it in. Before long, the hay took to flame, and Daryl made a quick retreat out of the shed. He didn't have much time, now.

By the time he got out of the shed, he could see the steady flames burning from within. He could almost feel the heat radiating from outside. That meant the dead freaks could see it and feel it, too. He laid in the tall grass in a momentary vigil, taking note of the steadying influx of walkers to the shed. He swallowed. There was a lot of them.

Quickly, he scurried over to what he presumed was Merle's car. A swift check showed that the hot wire was still pretty much intact, it had only been turned off. He crawled into the driver's seat and started it, the engine roaring to life on the first go.

He left without a second glance, leaving behind the ghastly smell of rotting corpses and the flames that tickled the air as they absorbed its oxygen. He left behind the stale, biting air of burning flesh. He left behind his only family and left with only his anger and this deepening pit of wallowing despair.

Even though he knew where he was going, he had never been so lost in his life.

As he drove he wondered how the others would take it. They would hide behind shock and sadness, he knew, but none of them would miss Merle. He figured they would probably celebrate because, hell, no one liked Merle. They would say their condolences to Daryl but in the end it wouldn't matter. They wouldn't care. Merle died for them and they wouldn't care. _On to the next one._

When he arrived at the prison, the sun had long gone into hiding to allow the stars to come out and play. With the lack of light pollution, they twinkled in a deceptive jingle so they could mask their vast loneliness with a façade of bright and bubbly energy. Daryl reckoned the stars could understand how he felt.

Rick was the one who had greeted him, little Carl in tow. Daryl didn't speak at first, only grabbed what was left of Merle's last 1/5th of whisky and his crossbow. He found Merle's lighter in the cup holder, fingered the item in his hands for a moment, put it in his breast pocket.

"Daryl," Rick began, softly. "Daryl, what happened? Where's Merle? Why did he let Michonne go?"

Daryl almost wanted to smile. Typical Rick, unsure of what to worry about first, so he laid out all of his cards on the table. No beating around the bush with this man. He scoffed.

"Where you think Merle is?" He began to walk away, his anger coming back in a fresh wave that resembled blind rage more than righteous anger. He was stopped by Rick's hand on his arm.

"Daryl," he prodded, gently, because Daryl was nothing more than a scared pup in a bear trap, "tell me what happened."

Daryl rounded on the man, freeing his arm in the process. He pointed a finger and jabbed it into Rick's chest. "You wan'a know what happened? Huh? That damn bastard of a Governor happened, tha's what!"

Rick stared at him for a moment, blankly, and Daryl found he couldn't stop himself. "There wasn' gon'na be no trade, Rick. He was gon' kill you," he pressed his finger harder into the man's chest before pointing at himself, "he was gon' kill me, and then we would 'ave taken Michonne back to Woodbury and done what he wanted wit' her."

"Daryl, I don't know-"

"Exactly," Daryl cut him off, "you don't. But Merle did. Saved your ass," he pointed to Carl, "your kids' asses, and e'ry body else's asses in this damn hell hole!" He paused to choke out a sob, cursing under his breath as he did so. "Damn it!"

He kicked the car, only to regret it as a searing pain tore through his leg. "Son of a bitch! I'm goin' to take watch. Just leave me be."

He stormed away from the surprised pair, and bee-lined for a more secluded watch tower. He sat with his feet over the ledge and unscrewed the cap. Knob Creek, his brother was aiming pretty high for his last drink. He poured out the first shot for Merle. He then drank from it with a slow, languid sip. He relished the burn as the liquid warmed his chest and paused only for air. He repeated the process twice before resting his back on the floor. He fished around another pocket and pulled out the pack of smokes he had looted off of a walker. There were two left. He took one, toying with it on his fingers, before he put it to his lips and inhaled.

The nicotine hit him in an intoxicating wave that echoed down into his fingertips. He was overcome by a sense of peace as he exhaled the noxious smoke, his shaking muscles seeming to relax as the drug settled into his bloodstream. Slowly, and without much fight, he found himself sitting back up as his chest quickly began to fill with a drowning sensation.

He rested his forehead against the cool metal railing and practiced his breathing, pausing occasionally to take another drag or gulp down another much-needed shot. By the time he had worked the knot in his chest, he was crying again.

He took another shot, this one messy as he missed his lips by a fraction. The dark liquid dribbled down his chin and his tongue fought to lap it up as he let out a desperate cry. After this failed, he only took another, longer shot. His head began to swim, and he released his lips from the bottle and—with a wild, tremendous yell—slammed his head against the railing.

His vision danced. He was more than a little buzzed, eight shots deep and his tolerance was only a fraction of what it once was. But hell if he cared. Maybe if he capped off this bottle he would be drunk enough to fall off of this tower.

A wet laugh followed that thought, and he took another shot. As if he could do that. He was a failure, but he wasn't a quitter. These people needed him, it was as simple as that; and it had taken him a long time to realize it so damned if he was going to forget. He'd meant what he had said to Rick before he had left: this was his family. Especially now. And as much as he wanted to blame them all and tell them all to eat shit, he knew he needed them, too.

As if knowing it were his cue to enter, Rick's head suddenly poked around the doorway, "Hey, Daryl."

Daryl looked his way, and frowned, but Rick could find no malice, "I thought I said 'Leave me be.' Or are you deaf as well as dumb?"

Rick sighed, his broad shoulders collapsing in momentary defeat. "All right, all right. I deserve that."

"Damn straight you do," Daryl downed another gulp, held the bottle in the air.

Rick seemed to get the message, and accepted the bottle without second thought. He rested himself beside the hunter with a loud sigh, running a hand through his hair. He took a shot and passed the bottle back. Daryl was happy to oblige.

"Look," Rick started, his eyes doing that nervous glancing they do whenever he was about to say something that he knew might not sit well with others, "I'm sorry about Merle, I really am."

"No you ain't," Daryl stated, matter-of-factly. Rick's eyes narrowed.

"I _am_, Daryl. I do feel sorry," He took the bottle from Daryl and laid back another shot, "That was your blood, Daryl. Your only family left in this world. And the others, and myself, we turned him away. Turned you away," he paused, looking up into the sky as he took another drink, "And he still saved our asses. All of our asses. You were right. And I can't say that I will miss him, because I won't. He still wasn't good for you, and you know that; but I am sorry. It's not in my intentions to bring you pain."

There was a long pause before Daryl spoke, and even then it was only, "All right, then."

He was speechless. He had assumed that Rick would be down there with Carol and Glenn, hamming it up because the sources of their problems had been exterminated. But, of course, good guy Rick had probably been thinking of the best way to say what he had just said. He was a good man.

Bastard.

Daryl sniffed. The tears blurred his vision, but this time he veiled them behind the intention of grabbing his last smoke. He lit it in a haste as he calmed himself down with another shot.

"Merle's a tough one," he sighed, taking the bogie to his lips. He exhaled and turned to Rick, "Has been since 'fore I knew him. Always wanted to do shit his own way, even iffit was wrong. Stubborn bastard never let me in on anything 'fore this neither, so I don'know why I was expectin' him to now, y'know?"

This time he couldn't stop the tears, and he hid his face from his friend. "I just wanted to help."

Rick patted his shoulder in a light, placating manner. His voice was soothing as he spoke, "But you tried, Daryl. You've always been trying, and you can't beat yourself up over it. Especially over someone who doesn't—didn't—need your help."

Daryl looked like he wanted to yell but Rick silenced him, "_We_ need you, Daryl. Right now. Carl, Carol, Judith, Beth, Hershel, Maggie, and Glenn. They all need you. I need you, man. I," he paused, "I can't do this without you. Not anymore. Not for a long time, now. I'd be lying if I didn't say we all probably would'a starved to death on more than one occasion if it weren't for you."

Daryl could only stare at the man, his mouth agape in blatant shock. He'd never heard something so sincere in his entire life. He had never been truly needed before now. He turned away from Rick, closing in on himself in defense.

"Go be with Li'l Asskicker and Carl. Tell him and e'ryone else I'm fine."

Rick stared at him long and hard, and Daryl would have stared back but his vision was dancing and he didn't know how much longer he could keep this up. He moved to stand and retreat away but in his drunken haste he began to slip and fall.

The former sheriff caught him with the practiced ease of a man who had done this many times before. He chuckled lightly.

"I don't think I have it in me to leave you up here with my good intentions alone."

Daryl scoffed and straightened himself up, "So you're supreme babysitter, now, too? That's even more good news for me."

Rick punched him playfully, "Shut up before I lock you up for drunk and disorderly conduct."

"Pig bastard," Daryl mumbled, stumbling back until he met wall and then sliding down onto his bottom, "Merle told me to never trust a cop."

Rick began to say something, stopped himself, and only smiled sadly at his companion.

"How's about I stay here 'til you want to come down, huh?"

"Free country," Daryl mumbled, staring at his almost empty bottle. Not a lot left, now. That alone made him want to start crying again. He didn't handle emotions well.

Rick sat beside him and the two of them sat in silence for a long expanse of time. Daryl finished his bottle and then took to crying silently beside his friend for the better portion of forty-five minutes. He then ranted about everyone in camp, and their refusal to accept his brother, and he ranted about how fucking stupid Merle was in general. And then he began to straight cry outright for his brother, slamming his hands into his face repeatedly until his face began to hurt almost as much as his chest. All the while, Rick sat beside him.

Rick never left him.

He wiped his face and turned to his friend.

"I think we should go. Long day t'morrow."

Rick nodded, and slung one of Daryl's arms over his shoulder. He helped the drunken man to his feet and the two of them trekked it back to C-Block, where Rick gently herded Daryl to his room. Daryl collapsed on his bed and Rick left with a soft, "good night."

He cried himself to sleep that night, images of his brother playing in a loop through his head. When he woke, he noticed that nothing was different. No one but him felt the pain of loss today. If anything, everyone seemed in better spirits because now the god-damn, metaphorical elephant in the room had been shipped off back to Africa. It put a hate in his heart right where the Governor had taken up residence.

The fate he wanted for that bastard was what was happening before his very eyes. Everyone and everything was moving on, and he could see it and it was like a smack in the face. Almost as if it had never happened. He would get a sad smile or two today, and maybe tomorrow. Then it was done with. And as he stood and helped with the preparations for that day's events, he did it with a heavy heart because he knew.

Nothing ever changed.

There were three things that Daryl Dixon knew, without a doubt: Merle was Merle, everyone dies, and the world will always _move on_.

Nothing ever changed.

* * *

_I know there's a lack of Carol in this, and that is for a reason. As much as I love Carol, I find her character to be a bit bland. She was a battered wife, and then a grieving mother, and now she's like obsessed with Daryl. And I know, I know, everyone's all thinking that Carol and Daryl are gonna get together and, personally, I don't want that to happen. She creeps me out with her pining over him. I feel like he sees her as almost a maternal figure, and all she wants is to get in his pants._

_So she doesn't get to be in here. And this isn't Rick/Daryl, either. But, if you ask me, they deserve to be together. And not in the perverted way, but because they understand each other on a fundamental level and I wish they would just get together, take Judith and Carl and become an ass-kicking quartet that rid the world of the living dead. But that won't happen, and Daryl/Carol probably will, but screw it. I can dream._

_I hope you enjoyed. Please leave a review! I want to know if I did this alright LOL. Thank you for reading~_


End file.
